A man is practically a ghost in his own office

If you like what i write please consider leaving me a donation there is a link in my profile

“I’m telling you, the man is practically a ghost in his own office,” Sarah whispered, leaning over the breakroom table. “He’s there, he’s helpful, he’s polite, but the moment the clock hits five, he vanishes like he’s being recalled to a home planet.”

Martin didn't hear her, mostly because he was preoccupied with the temperamental coffee machine, but he caught the tail end of the laughter from the group of women gathered around the microwave. He offered a small, self-deprecating smile and stepped aside to let a cluster of accountants pass through. It was a typical Tuesday in Warwick. In the vast, open-plan expanse of the office, Martin occupied a peculiar niche. As one of the few men in a department dominated by women ranging from eager twenty-somethings to seasoned professionals in their sixties, he had become a sort of benign fixture the reliable I.T. professional who could fix a crashed server without making anyone feel stupid for clicking a phishing link.

He liked the rhythm of his life. He liked the gentle chatter of the office, the shared biscuits, and the way the women looked out for one another, often extending that maternal or sisterly care to him in the form of homemade cakes or genuine inquiries about his weekend. It was a warm environment, though he remained slightly on the periphery, a quiet observer of the social dynamics.

The year was 2009, and at thirty-four, Martin felt he had finally hit a stride of comfortable stability. He had a home he loved and a wife, Sue, who was the absolute center of his world. Whenever the office chatter turned to family or weekend plans, Martin’s thoughts drifted instinctively to her. The warmth he felt at work was a pale imitation of the heat he felt when he walked through his front door at night.

“Martin! Earth to Martin!”

He blinked, realizing he had been staring blankly at his monitor for a full minute. Standing over him was Brenda, a senior administrator who had been with the company since the days of dot-matrix printers. She was a formidable woman in her late fifties, possessing a laugh that could rattle the windows of the neighboring office and a genuine fondness for anyone who could troubleshoot her Outlook calendar.

“You’re drifting again, love,” Brenda teased, patting his shoulder with a hand that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla. “The girls and I were just debating. We’re organizing a little get-together this Friday nothing formal, just a few drinks and some nibbles at that bistro by the station. We’d actually like you to come. No excuses about the server being temperamental.”

Martin felt a flush of genuine gratitude. In a workplace where the social hierarchies were often invisible but potent, being invited into the 'inner circle' of the office matriarchs was a mark of high esteem. He smiled, the expression reaching his eyes. “I’ll have to check with Sue, but I’m fairly sure she’d be happy for me to head out for a few hours. It sounds lovely, Brenda.”

"Check with Sue? Oh, don't be such a wet blanket, Martin!" Brenda chuckled, her voice booming across the quiet hum of the IT bay. "It’s just a few drinks. Tell her it’s a mandatory team-building exercise for the soul. She’ll understand."

The rest of the week passed in a blur of routine. Martin spent his days diving into the digital guts of the company, untangling messy spreadsheets and calming the panic of employees who had accidentally deleted their entire "My Documents" folders. Yet, there was a lingering sense of anticipation. He enjoyed the quiet of his home life with Sue, but the genuine warmth and inclusion from the women at work provided a different kind of fulfillment a sense of belonging to a community that saw him not just as the 'computer man,' but as a friend.

When he mentioned the invitation to Sue that evening over dinner, she had laughed, her eyes twinkling with that particular brand of mischief he loved. "Go on, then. I'm sure Brenda has already decided you're coming, and heaven forbid you challenge the authority of a senior administrator. Just don't let them convince you to join a book club."

Friday arrived with a crispness that made the interior of the bistro by the station feel even more inviting. As Martin walked in, he spotted the group immediately. They were a sea of vibrant scarves, loud laughter, and clinking glasses. He felt a momentary surge of nervousness a relic of his younger years but it evaporated the moment Brenda spotted him.

“There he is! The man of the hour!” Brenda bellowed, waving a glass of prosecco in his direction. She practically hauled him into the circle, her grip firm and welcoming. “Now that Martin has arrived to provide some much-needed masculine perspective which is to say, to listen to us talk we can officially begin the festivities.”

The atmosphere was electric, a heady mix of expensive perfume and the kind of unfiltered honesty that only emerges after the second round of drinks. Martin found himself in the center of a whirlwind of conversation. He wasn't just the IT guy tonight; he was the confidant, the target of gentle teasing, and the recipient of a dozen different stories about the absurdities of office politics. For a while, the boundaries of the professional world blurred, replaced by a genuine, warm camaraderie. He discovered that Brenda had a secret passion for gothic novels and that the quietest accountant in the office, a woman named Janet, had once been a semi-professional rally driver in the seventies.

As the evening progressed, the drinks flowed more freely, and the laughter grew louder. Martin felt a pleasant haze settling over him, a loosening of the shoulders he didn’t know he’d been carrying. He found himself recounting stories of his own mostly harmless mishaps from his early days in tech and was surprised by how much the women enjoyed his self-deprecation. There was a comfort in being known and liked, not for his utility in fixing a printer, but for his company.

Around nine o'clock, the group began to migrate from the table toward the small dance floor area of the bistro, where a jukebox was pumping out a mix of disco and early eighties pop. Martin, usually the first to retreat to the safety of a wall with a drink in his hand, found himself swept up in the momentum. A song by ABBA started, and suddenly he was flanked by two women from the marketing department Claire and Diane. They were both in their mid-thirties, with infectious laughs and a spirited energy that seemed to propel them forward.

“Oh, look at him! He’s actually got some rhythm!” Claire exclaimed, her voice barely audible over the upbeat tempo of *Dancing Queen*. She grabbed Martin’s arm, pulling him further into the fray, while Diane slid in on his other side. They weren’t particularly dainty women they were soft-curved and exuberant, with a kind of maternal confidence that made their flirtation feel more like a welcoming hug than a challenge.

Martin laughed, his inhibitions dissolving along with his professional reserve. He found himself swaying to the music, caught in a pincer movement of floral perfume and warm, tactile energy. It was a strange sensation; he felt like a younger brother who had suddenly been adopted by two very enthusiastic aunts. They leaned into him, their laughter vibrating against his chest, and for the first time in years, Martin stopped thinking about the time and started feeling the moment. He wasn't the IT guy in this scenario; he was just a man being adored by two women who clearly enjoyed the novelty of his polite, slightly flustered demeanor.

The evening didn't just peak at the dance floor; it plateaued in a state of high-spirited chaos. By the time the bistro began to wind down, the group had migrated to a nearby pub for a "final" round that lasted nearly two hours. Martin found himself seated between Brenda and Janet, the former rally driver, listening to a detailed account of a 1978 race in the Scottish Highlands. He felt a genuine sense of kinship with these women. They treated him with a tenderness that was refreshing a mixture of protective care and a subtle, knowing appreciation for his youth compared to theirs.

As the clock crept toward midnight, the alcohol had softened the edges of the world. Martin remembered the conversation drifting toward the absurdities of their personal lives, the laughter becoming a rhythmic background noise to the clinking of glasses. He felt a warm glow of belonging. He was the only man in the circle, yet he didn't feel like an outsider. Instead, he felt like the honorary member of a very exclusive, very loud sisterhood.

The transition from the pub to the street was a blur of cold night air and loud, echoing laughter. Martin felt a sudden, sharp clarity return to him, though his legs felt like they were made of cotton wool. He remembered the sensation of his car keys being snatched away a blur of a hand and a firm voice and the sudden realization that he was no longer in control of his itinerary.

"Right then, who's in the taxi?" Brenda’s voice boomed, cutting through the midnight chill.

Before Martin could formulate a plan to get home to Sue, he felt a pair of arms lock onto him with surprising strength. It was Claire and Diane, the two from the dance floor, who had effectively claimed him as their prize for the evening. They didn't just lead him toward the waiting cab; they practically steered him like a piece of luggage.

"We'll take him," Diane announced to the driver with a mischievous glint in her eye. "He’s far too precious to leave wandering the streets of Warwick in this state."

The ride was a chaotic blur of perfume and laughter. Martin sat sandwiched between Claire and Diane, his shoulders barely fitting in the back seat. Every time the taxi took a sharp turn, he found himself pressed firmly against them, their soft curves acting like cushions. He tried to maintain some semblance of his usual polite demeanor, but the wine and the sheer exuberance of the women had him feeling floaty and compliant. He didn’t even protest when the taxi veered away from his neighborhood and headed toward a residential street he didn't recognize.

When the car finally screeched to a halt, the transition from the vehicle to the front door happened in a matter of seconds. Martin felt himself being hoisted out of the cab, his feet barely touching the pavement. The driver, a grizzled man who had clearly seen everything in his time in Warwick, chuckled as he watched the two women practically tow the bewildered I.T. man toward the house.

"You lot have a right proper handful there," the driver joked, leaning out the window. "Better look after the lad!"

"Oh, we intend to," Diane replied with a predatory sort of playfulness, not even looking back as she steered Martin through the front door.

The interior of the house smelled of old wood and something sharply sweet, like overripe fruit. Martin stumbled slightly, his coordination lagging behind his thoughts, as he was guided into a lounge that felt lived-in and cluttered. There, seated in a velvet armchair with a glass of amber liquid in her hand, was the third woman. She didn’t introduce herself; she simply looked at him, her eyes traveling slowly from his polished shoes up to his bewildered expression.

“Oh, this is a nice one,” she murmured, her voice a low, gravelly purr.

Before Martin could ask where he was or how to get home, the atmosphere shifted from playful to predatory. The two women who had escorted him in didn't let go; instead, they steered him upward, their grip firm and insistent. The stairs felt like they were tilting beneath him. By the time they reached the bedroom, the polite boundaries of the office had been completely incinerated. He found himself pushed back against a mattress that smelled of lavender and musk, and suddenly, the world narrowed down to the sensation of lips and tongue. It was an overwhelming, tactile rush the feeling of women who were confident in their bodies and entirely uninterested in his hesitation.

As they stripped him, Martin felt a strange, floating detachment. He was acutely aware of the contrast: the softness of their curves against the sudden, jarring cold of the room. He felt the weight of them, the warmth of their skin, and the sheer physicality of their presence. When he was finally naked, the woman who had been drinking sherry stood before him, her gaze clinical yet appreciative.

"He’s even better than he looks," the sherry lady remarked, her voice humming with a quiet authority. She didn't just look at him; she appraised him, her eyes lingering on his frame with a hunger that made Martin’s heart hammer against his ribs.

Without a word of warning, she reached for a small glass bottle on the bedside table. She popped two small, pale pills into his open palm and tilted the glass of sherry toward his lips. "Drink up, love. This is just to make sure you can keep up with us."

Martin swallowed, the bitter tang of the tablets chased by the cloying sweetness of the wine. Almost instantly, a strange, electric heat began to radiate from the base of his spine, flooding his extremities. The world seemed to sharpen, and the sudden surge of blood to his groin was so powerful it was almost painful. He felt a level of arousal that was physically impossible to ignore, a driving, insistent need that drowned out the lingering voice in his head asking how he was going to explain this to Sue.

The silence of the room was shattered when one of the women dropped to her knees. The sensation of her mouth warm, wet, and insistent encircling him was an explosion of pleasure that made Martin gasp aloud. His fingers instinctively tangled in her hair, guiding her, while another set of hands began a slow, rhythmic massage of his balls. He was trapped in a sensory overload; a tongue flickered against his ear, and a thumb teased his nipple, sending shivers of electricity through his chest.

The transition from the foreplay to the main event was a blur of soft skin and heavy breathing. Martin felt himself being pushed back onto the mattress, the sheets sliding away as the three women converged on him. He lost track of who was where; there was only the sensation of warmth and the scent of floral perfume mixed with the musk of arousal. A pair of full breasts pressed against his chest, while a wet, insistent heat claimed his mouth. He felt a surge of power and desire that was entirely unfamiliar, fueled by whatever chemical cocktail the sherry lady had administered.

He didn't have time to think before the first woman impaled herself on him. The sensation was overwhelming a tight, welcoming heat that seemed to swallow him whole. He groaned, his hips reacting instinctively, driving upward into her. He was barely processing the pleasure before the woman on his face shifted, and another pussy, dripping and eager, replaced her. He found himself lost in a rhythmic cycle of pleasure, a human centerpiece for their collective hunger.

The pace was relentless. As one woman climbed off, moaning loudly and declaring her climax, another immediately slid into place. They moved like a choreographed team, swapping positions with a fluid efficiency that kept Martin in a state of perpetual peak. He felt the weight of their bodies, the softness of their bellies pressing against him, and the way they encouraged him to push harder, deeper. He was coming again and again, the pills preventing the usual dip in energy, keeping him hard and driving despite the sheer volume of their demands.

By the time the frenzy slowed, Martin was breathless and trembling. He felt as though he had run a marathon while being hugged by a cloud. The women didn't immediately pull away; they lingered, their limbs entangled with his in a soft, exhausted heap. The room had fallen silent, save for the sound of four people trying to catch their breath.

The silence of the room was thick, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the bedside table and the heavy, synchronized breathing of four exhausted people. For a few long minutes, no one moved. Martin lay there, his mind a swirling fog of pleasure and confusion, feeling the warmth of their skin as a comforting weight. The chemical surge from the pills was starting to ebb, leaving him in a state of profound lethargy.

Eventually, the woman who had administered the sherry shifted, her voice returning to that low, gravelly purr. "Well, you certainly lived up to the promise, love." She gave his chest a playful squeeze and sat up, the sheets sliding down to reveal a soft, generous figure that he found surprisingly alluring in the dim light. The other two followed suit, stretching like cats as they disentangled themselves from the heap of limbs.

The atmosphere shifted from the heat of the act to a gentle, almost maternal care. They didn't rush him out; instead, they treated him with a fondness that bordered on adoption. One of them disappeared into the ensuite and returned with a cool, damp flannel, gently wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck. It was a strange, tender transition, moving from the raw intensity of a three-way encounter to the quiet intimacy of being looked after.

"You look absolutely spent," Diane chuckled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Most men would have collapsed half an hour ago. Those little tablets do the heavy lifting, but you've got a natural stamina that's quite impressive."

Martin leaned back against the pillows, feeling a strange mixture of triumph and utter disorientation. He was acutely aware of the absurdity of the situation one moment he was the dependable I.T. guy from Warwick, and the next, he was the center of attention for three women who treated him with a combination of hunger and tenderness. As he watched them dress, the cold light of morning filtering through the blinds, he realized he didn't feel the reflexive urge to apologize or flee. Instead, there was a warm, humming satisfaction in his chest.

The "sherry lady," who now seemed to be the unofficial leader of the group, stepped toward him. She was wearing a floral dressing gown that accentuated her soft, rounded hips, and she looked at him with a gaze that was both maternal and predatory. "You're not going to leave us hanging, are you, Martin? A performance like that deserves a repeat engagement."

She reached into a handbag on the bedside table and produced a small slip of paper with a handwritten phone number. "This is for the three of us. No need for names just call us 'the girls.' Ring this number a few hours before you want to come back, and if we're all feeling frisky, we'll send you the address again."

Martin took the paper, his fingers brushing hers. The touch sparked a reminder of the intense physical connection they had shared, and he found himself nodding eagerly. "I... I think I could manage that."

The journey back to reality was a slow descent. By the time Martin finally stepped through his own front door, the electric hum of the aphrodisiac had faded into a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. He felt as though he had stepped out of a fever dream and back into the quiet, predictable sanctuary of his marriage. Sue was in the kitchen, the smell of brewing tea and toast greeting him a stark contrast to the heavy scent of musk and floral perfume that still clung to his skin.

"You look like you've been through a war, love," Sue remarked, glancing up with a playful smile. "Brenda's parties usually leave the men looking like they've aged a decade in one night."

Martin chuckled, though the sound felt distant. He leaned in to kiss her, feeling a sudden, fierce surge of affection for the woman who knew him best. He didn't tell her about the "girls" or the secret address in the residential outskirts of town. It wasn't that he wanted to lie; it was simply that the experience felt too surreal to articulate. How do you explain that your co-workers' friends treated you like a prized piece of livestock for an afternoon?

For the next few weeks, the phone number sat on his bedside table, a silent invitation to a different kind of life. He found himself distracted during the workday. When Brenda boomed across the office, he no longer just saw a senior administrator; he saw the gateway to a secret society of women who viewed him with an appetite he had never experienced before. He began to notice the way other women in the office looked at him not with professional courtesy, but with a curious, lingering interest, as if the secret of his weekend adventures was written in the newfound confidence of his stride.

The temptation became a physical weight by the third week. Every time Martin closed his eyes during a particularly tedious Zoom call, he didn't see spreadsheets; he saw the way the light had hit the curves of those three women in that dimly lit bedroom. The aphrodisiac had worn off, but the psychological imprint remained a craving for that specific, overwhelming brand of attention.

He finally made the call on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, stepping into the quiet of the server room where the hum of the cooling fans drowned out the rest of the office. His heart hammered against his ribs as he spoke to the woman who had given him the number. She didn't ask for his name, and he didn't ask for hers. They spoke in a shorthand of desire and logistics, agreeing on a time for the following Friday.

"Bring yourself to us, Martin," she had purred. "And perhaps a bottle of something sparkling. We'll provide the rest."

The wait until Friday was an exercise in torture. He found himself lingering longer at the coffee machine, chatting with Claire and Diane, wondering if they were thinking about him as much as he was thinking about them. There was a new, electric tension in their interactions. Every accidental brush of an arm or a lingering glance over a cubicle wall felt like a coded message. He wondered if they spoke about him in their private circles, if he had become a topic of conversation over their own glasses of sherry.

Friday arrived with a tension that made the air in the Warwick office feel thick. Martin spent the day in a state of focused distraction, his mind drifting away from the flickering monitors and toward the residential street where the secret house waited. He felt like a spy in his own life, nodding politely to Brenda and exchanging banal pleasantries about the upcoming weekend while his skin hummed with anticipation. When five o'clock finally rolled around, he didn't linger. He grabbed his coat, clutched a bottle of chilled champagne under his arm, and made his way to his car with a purpose that bordered on the frantic.

The drive took him away from the bustling center and into the quieter, leafier outskirts of the town. As he pulled up to the familiar address, the rain had ceased, leaving the pavement glistening under the orange glow of the streetlamps. He stepped out of the car, the cool air snapping him back into the present. He barely had time to ring the doorbell before the door swung open, revealing the "sherry lady" in a silk robe that clung to her generous curves. She didn't say a word; she simply reached out, took the champagne by the neck, and pulled him inside with a strength that surprised him.

The house felt different this time less like a stranger's home and more like a sanctuary dedicated to a very specific kind of pleasure. He was led straight back to the bedroom, where Claire and Diane were already waiting. They were partially dressed in lace and satin, their expressions a mix of hunger and playful welcome. The atmosphere was immediate and heavy, the scent of vanilla and musk hanging in the air. There was no tentative introduction this time; the boundaries had been established during their first encounter.

"You're late, Martin," Diane whispered, her voice a low vibration as she stepped toward him and began to unbutton his shirt with practiced efficiency.

"By exactly four minutes," Claire added, sliding behind him to press her chest against his shoulder blades. Her hands wandered down his chest, her touch confident and proprietary. "We’ve decided that as a penalty for your tardiness, you don't get to choose who starts."

Martin barely had time to chuckle before the "sherry lady" stepped forward, holding a small glass of the amber liquid and those same pale tablets. The memory of the previous encounter the crushing weight of pleasure and the subsequent bone-deep exhaustion hit him all at once. He took the pills without hesitation, the bitter taste a signal to his body that the rules of the normal world no longer applied.

As the chemical heat began to stir in his veins, the efficiency of the women took over. There was no awkwardness, only a synchronized hunger. He was stripped with a speed that left him shivering for only a second before he was engulfed in warmth. He felt the contrast of their skin the soft, pillowy generosity of the older woman and the firmer, energetic press of the two younger ones. They didn't just want him; they orchestrated him, moving him across the bed like a piece of living art.

The sensation of the first contact was an electric shock. One woman claimed his mouth in a deep, demanding kiss, while another’s hand guided him toward her. When he finally slid inside, the fit was perfect a snug, welcoming heat that drew a guttural groan from his throat. He felt the sheer physical scale of them; they were soft and enveloping, creating a cocoon of skin and scent that blocked out the rest of the world.

The rhythm of the encounter was far more aggressive than the first time. Now that the novelty had worn off and the desire had simmered for weeks, there was a frantic energy to their movements. Martin felt like he was drowning in a sea of softness, the heavy, warm press of their thighs and breasts pinning him into the mattress. Every time he thought he had reached a plateau of pleasure, one of them would shift, creating a new angle of friction that sent him spiraling back into an intense, focused heat.

He lost track of who was where, but he became acutely aware of the distinct textures of their skin. There was the silkiness of the woman who had fed him the pills, whose weight felt grounding and immense, and the more frantic, athletic energy of the other two. They whispered encouragements and demands in his ear, their voices a blurred chorus of praise that fueled his stamina. The pills were working overtime; he felt a level of arousal that was almost hypnotic, his body responding to their touch with a mechanical precision that bypassed his brain entirely.

As the hour wore on, the atmosphere in the room grew thick and humid. He remember the feeling of being completely surrounded a hand massaging his calf, a tongue tracing the line of his jaw, and the relentless, wet heat of a woman riding him with a fierce, rhythmic intensity. He was no longer just a participant; he was the axis around which their collective pleasure rotated. When the first of them finally peaked, her scream was muffled against his shoulder, her body shuddering in a way that vibrated through his entire frame.

The chain reaction was immediate. The other two, sensing the climax, surged forward to claim their share of the momentum. Martin felt himself being pushed to the absolute limit of his endurance. The sensations were overlapping now the feeling of a wet tongue on his neck while another woman’s hips grinded against his, creating a sensory overload that made his head swim. He felt a massive, surging pressure build in his loins, a tension so great that it felt as if he might break.

The release was violent and total. Martin felt his muscles lock in a sudden, agonizingly perfect spasm as he came, a surge so powerful it felt as though it were pulling the very air from his lungs. He didn’t just peak; he collapsed into the sensation, his body vibrating in sync with the women who were currently clinging to him like shipwreck survivors. For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was the heavy, ragged synchronization of four people trying to remember how to breathe.

As the chemical fire of the tablets finally began to cool, a profound heaviness settled over him. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling where the dim light of the bedside lamp cast long, dancing shadows. The women didn’t pull away immediately; they lingered in a state of soft, post-coital warmth, their limbs draped over him in a tangle of contented exhaustion. The "sherry lady" rested her head on his chest, her breathing slowing down to match his own.

"I think," she whispered, her voice returning to that gravelly, satisfied purr, "that we may have finally broken him."

Martin tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak, breathless wheeze. His body felt like it had been disassembled and put back together slightly incorrectly. The sheer physical demand of the last two hours had drained him of everything but a vague sense of accomplishment. He felt a strange, humming kinship with them a shared secret bonded by sweat and the peculiar chemistry of those pills.